


My Body Is A Cage

by CobaltStargazer



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Bruce Has Issues, F/M, Natasha Is The Hulk Whisperer, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 06:16:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7673245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CobaltStargazer/pseuds/CobaltStargazer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had to talk him down. Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Body Is A Cage

**Author's Note:**

> First Marvel fic. You can either thank of blame Arcade Fire and my own stubborn insistence that Bruce and Natasha are love.

_She's so tiny._

He only thinks it because she's got her back to him, because she'd read it in his face if she could see his expression. She's uncanny that way, almost otherworldly, and he knows its probably just after-effects of what was done to her, but regardless he doesn't want her knowing his thoughts. She _is_ small, only five-three by his estimation, but 'small' is a misnomer for what's within. He looks down at his arms and hands. There are quickly-healing cuts on his knuckles and a gash on his left forearm that is slower to close. He must have sliced himself open somehow, but he can't remember when or how. He never can. 

"Did you sleep?"

"I guess."

His voice is groggy, and he felt like he just woke up from a coma, but paradoxically he doesn't feel rested. He looks at his arm again, starts to sit up. She's at the window. The shadows have changed, lengthened as the day grew late. The inside of his mouth tastes brown, and he reaches for the cup of water on the bedside table with his uninjured arm. The bed is a rumpled mess, and its only when he sits up further that he realizes he's wearing his boxers and nothing else. He just barely manages to put the cup back on a solid surface before pulling the sheet up around his hips, then higher, over his stomach. He feels like a blushing virgin, and considering the hazy memories of the past hour or so it isn't as if she hasn't seen worse. Still, one hand keeps hold of the sheet.

"Did you...uh..."

"Steve insisted," she says dryly, giving him a look over her shoulder, and her expression is both grave and sympathetic, although if the sympathy is for him or for Cap is anyone's guess. "I think he foresaw that look on your face."

She turns away from the window, and the dying sunlight catches her dark red hair, burnishing it a deeper hue. He tucks the sheet more firmly around his waist as she crosses the room, and when she sits down on the edge of the bed he tucks his left arm as out of sight as he can/ He's embarrassed enough, there's no need to add to it.

"Let me look at that."

He cringes inwardly, but she just sits there in silence until he allows her to examine the healing wound. He must have really done the proverbial bang-up job on himself if it hasn't closed yet. He thinks of infection, bits of broken glass lodged in the laceration, how long it bled. He _very_ carefully peers beneath the sheet that covers his lower half, finds no blood. Her touch is cool. He never knew until just now that shame was both hot and cold.

"I'm supposed to be the doctor."

She looks up at the clipped words, and her expression is as stoic as ever, almost remote. But there's a spark in those green eyes, like a distant fire on a long stretch of beach. He's seen her cold and he's seen her aloof and he's seen her unapproachable, but somewhere underneath that there's a human heart. And if the assassin within her is what calls to the monster within _him_....

He shies away from the thought, denying it even as it winnows into his consciousness like the first breath of summer. Separating the wheat of his feelings from the chaff of his thoughts even as it simultaneously heats the shame up to boiling _and_ drops the temperature of it to below freezing. He pulls his arm out of her grasp, tucks it against his side. Out of her reach. She makes a 'tsk' noise with her tongue, but she doesn't move. And the _Thing_ that resides in the back of his skull, and not just there but down in his gut, lets out a noise only he can hear. He shrinks further into himself.

"Bruce."

It's only one word, but the word is his name, and that summer breeze is blowing harder now. He's told himself it's impossible, that the rage that lives inside him would make it impossible, but her icy exterior burns him like the sun, hotter than any three-alarm-blaze. She is a soldier, and he is both monster and man wound into one body. His right hand comes up, pushes through his already messy hair, then drops to his side. His left hand twitches, then lifts. The gash has closed. He still can't remember what he did to himself. It doesn't matter.

"Natasha."

He brushes the back of his hand against her cheek, so softly that she might not even feel it, and the cage that is his body trembles with words he may never be able to give voice to. But whatever she sees in his eyes makes her lips twitch, and that spark beams out at him brighter than ever. He lets his hand drop, leans back against the headboard. She reaches behind him, plumps the pillows. He'd kiss her if he had the nerve.

"You should really sleep," she says, and he nods, because he's still exhausted. He hasn't been able to pinpoint if the shift into the Hulk or the shift back is what wears him out, but it hardly matters. The sky outside is dark now, he can see a few stars against the blackness. He'll sleep, and then when his head is really clear they can talk. About things that matter.

He thinks he sees her pause at the door, but he isn't sure because he's already half-asleep. There's a tiny smile on his face as he slips into slumber. To not dream at all.


End file.
